“I was watching you. Five minutes! Not long to give to the consideration of a death sentence.”
“A—what?”
“Staithley. Staithley Mills without the Hepplestalls!”
“Oh, they’ll survive it. This tiling’s a gift from God, and I’m not going to turn my back on the deity. It’s bad manners. Candidly, I’m surprised at you, Mary. You might be thinking there’s something to argue about. You might be sentimental for the Hepplestalls.”
“No,” she said. “For a Hepplestall. For you. Rupert, I’ll leave the stage to-morrow if you will go and do your work at Staithley.”
“Good Lord! Besides, aren’t you rather forgetting? Aren’t you forgetting you’re a Bradshaw?”
“It is quite safe to forget that. I’m Mary Arden. Nobody knows me. It’s too long since I was anything but that.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t do. Too risky altogether. Oh, never. Staithley’s the one place that’s absolutely barred.”
“Rupert, you’re making me responsible. You’re using me as your excuse.”
“Damn it, Mary, do you want us to live in Staithley?”